


Private Performance

by Querel (Rednaelo)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Flash Fic, M/M, Shotacon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 17:47:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rednaelo/pseuds/Querel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bro Strider considers the habits of his younger brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Performance

**Author's Note:**

> As much as I want to be writing all the things I said I would, I just had to put this down. Short, sweet and shota. Yum yum.

You walk around the place like you’re alone.  Like you’re far away from where anyone else could find you.  As if there weren’t people right outside the walls: they’re not as thick as you think.  Your feet are so skinny and your steps are soft as cat paws on carpet, no matter where you’re walking.  And sometimes, I watch you when you’re convinced no one’s looking and you walk across the floor on your tiptoes.  You weave between the piles of junk on the living room floor and jump over the boundary between the hardwood and the tile.  Like you don’t even think anyone else exists.

Like you don’t know I’m right there, watching you, following every line I can trace without making a single move.  You extend from ankle to thigh like the strokes from the tip of a paintbrush, soft and full of pale flesh—almost pink—and splattered with freckles.  Whoever painted you knew you’d be a masterpiece and they must’ve whispered it in your ear every night so you knew it too.  It would explain why you insist on treating this cluttered pit like it’s your stage.  It would explain why you always moan whenever my breath touches your neck.

You bend and you reach and with every stretch of your muscles, I am sinking deeper into this trap that you’ve laid for me.  And even when you’re not doing anything, I’m caught.  You sit on the floor with your back against the futon, shoving cereal in your mouth and I’m starving for you.  You walk through the door after school and sigh, your fingers pushing through your hair and my hands are unbearably empty. 

One by one, the pieces fall away and you leave them like breadcrumbs to your candy house: your shoes are off, then your socks, you walk away and your shirt falls, then pants, then you’re already down the hallway and the bathroom door closes.  Your shadow is there for me to remember until you come right back out, naked and wordless and sit yourself at the table and do your homework like a good kid.

You sit there with your knees together and your heels lifted, biting your bottom lip and cussing over your math problems for the next half hour.  Your spine has something wrong with it.  That’s what the doctor said.  I don’t remember what the fuck they called it, but you bent over and touched your toes for them and they said you had a weird spine.  Nothing serious, just enough to be noticeable.  I notice it.  I notice how it curves up from your skinny hips and into your shoulders like the sweep of an angel’s wing.  I have that line memorized.  Like you’re _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , and I can just recite the curve of your spine while we play on this stage where you think you exist.

When your shades come off, I have to stop myself from snatching you. I did not let you wander so far just to let myself break under your whims.  Someone has to pretend to be the adult here and it might as well be me, since I’ve been doing it the longest. 

You push away from the table and get to your feet.   Your spotlight is on and you dance for me without even knowing.  It’s in your every footstep as you walk on those toes across the cold tile.  Your steps crisscross and your hands grip unconsciously at the little inches of fat that still thicken your thighs just a bit since you’re still a baby.  Not fooling anyone; not even me.  No matter how dark your eyes are, looking like blood pooled between the cracks in the dirty concrete.  They’re feathered in silver lashes and you’re still just a child. Your lips are thin and chapped and pink from where your snaggled teeth have been tugging impatiently.  And I try to forget your youth and I try to forget how you’re just pretending to be grown up, like me, and by that point your foot pushes down into the futon.  One, then the other against the back, next to my shoulder.

And with your hands on the wall and your angel-spine beneath my fingers, I listen to your wordlessness with my nose against your freckled stomach and your taste between my lips. 

You move as if you are alone.  When I watch you, there is no one else in the world but us.


End file.
